


On Phthonus' Altar

by leonidaslion



Series: Phthonus [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam makes good on his promises ... and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Phthonus' Altar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepless3333](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sleepless3333).



> Thanks to beta goddess for the beta!
> 
> [Art](http://bite-my-muse.livejournal.com/1823.html#cutid1) by nyaubaby  
> [Art](http://amber1960.livejournal.com/31725.html) by amber1960

By the time they get back to the motel, Dean feels more guilty and awkward than horny. Sam is sprawled out in the passenger seat, radiating heat and hunger. He hasn’t touched Dean since they got in the car, but he keeps _staring_. When Dean shifts awkwardly, Sam licks his lips like a cat that has just gotten its first taste of cream.

He’s doing it on purpose: bitch _knows_ that Dean has great peripheral vision.

So yeah, Dean is uncomfortably hard against the leather of his pants as he pulls into an empty spot a few spaces down from their room. He’s only human, after all. On the other hand, with Sam keeping his distance, his brain has actually started working again and images of Sam as a kid keep superimposing themselves on the road.

Sam with jelly smeared across his face. Sam bent almost in half with his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he works through his arithmetic homework and Sam with baby fat and skinned knees. Then, as if that’s not enough, Sam _as_ a fucking baby. All of it conspiring to remind him that Sam is his kid brother—key word there being _brother_ —who he’s supposed to watch out for.

But the topper on what’s already a pretty crappy situation is the sneaking suspicion that, deep down, he _does_ want this. Because Dean can tell himself as much as he wants that his body is having a natural reaction to a hot guy eye-fucking him—a hot guy who just had his hands all over _(inside)_ his body—but that doesn’t make it true. He’s straight. He’s straight as a fucking arrow and the only reason that he’s turned on right now is that it’s _Sam_ , and Sam has always somehow managed to defy category.

Oh God, he’s in love with his baby brother.

“You’re freaking out,” Sam says.

Dean considers denying it and then realizes that if there is ever a time for a deep, heartfelt, chick flick moment, it’s now.

“Of course I’m freaking out!” he yells, whipping his head to the side.

Sam’s eyes almost seem to glow beneath the eyeliner, all of that shaggy hair falling around his face like a shadow. In the faint illumination from the parking lot lights, his face is all angular intent and hunger. Fox eyes and a fox’s smile to go with them.

Meeting his brother’s gaze makes Dean sweat slightly, but he can’t look away now. It’d be a sign of weakness, and he’s already given Sam enough of those tonight. His voice is harsher than he intends it to be when he speaks: over-compensation for the nervous flutter in his gut.

“You’re my _brother_ , Sam. What’m I supposed to be: thrilled? I mean, Jesus Christ, you just stuck your finger up my ass!”

Sam doesn’t look disturbed by Dean’s bluntness or the tone of his voice. If anything, the smug satisfaction on his face deepens. As if he can see right past Dean’s bluster to the twisting knot of need at his core.

“Planning on doing more than that in a few minutes,” he says, flitting his gaze over Dean’s chest before dropping it to eye the press of Dean’s dick against his pants.

“That’s not funny,” Dean growls, and resists the urge to put his hand over his crotch. Stupid goddamned pants. If Dean was wearing his own fucking clothes instead of this get-up he wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

Last time he lets Sam pick out their disguises. Ever.

“Well, that’s good because I wasn’t joking,” Sam says, leaning against the door. He tilts his head back and Dean’s eyes are drawn to that obscenely long, smooth neck. He realizes that he’s staring and jerks his gaze away, not quite quickly enough to miss the widening of his brother’s smile.

“This isn’t happening,” Dean announces.

Sam snorts. “Way to live in denial, man.”

“I mean it, Sammy. You—I—” Dean takes a deep breath and then, using his best ‘final word on the matter’ voice, continues, “You’re going to go inside and go to be—to sleep. I’m gonna get myself another room. We, uh, obviously need to take a step back here.”

He’s busy staring out his window, where it’s safe to rest his eyes, so he doesn’t see Sam coming and jumps, startled, when his brother’s hand closes around the back of his neck. His heart thuds faster and he’s immediately pissed at himself: both for the skittish reaction and for the pulse of arousal that goes through him.

“Are you done?” Sam asks. All of the teasing is gone from his voice: has been replaced by something molasses dark.

Dean is leaning slightly into his brother’s touch, but somehow he manages to grate out, “No. This thing—whatever it is—it’s wrong.”

“Why?” Sam whispers, and Dean lets out a hoarse laugh.

There are a million answers Dean could give to that question, and almost every one has the word ‘brother’ in there somewhere. But Sam is just going to bulldoze through those excuses: is going to look deep inside Dean and know that excuses is all they are. There’s something inside of Dean that doesn’t give a fuck that Sam is his brother. There’s a part of him that’s actually a little turned on by that fact.

Which isn’t to say that he’s fine with this thing, whatever it is. He’s not fine. Not at fucking all.

But Dean isn’t good with words at the best of times, and he isn’t even sure what his problem _is_. He feels like a blind man trying to explain to his deaf buddy what the color red looks like, and the way that Sam keeps rubbing his thumb against the back of Dean’s neck isn’t helping his concentration any.

He has a responsibility to his brother, though, so he makes himself fumble after an explanation. One that will get through to Sammy, who’s going to be alone in a few months, and who doesn’t need _this_ making Dean’s loss a thousand times worse.

And there it is. Right fucking there. Dean can’t let Sam fuck himself over like this just because the kid’s a little screwed up right now.

“Look, man,” he says slowly. “I get that you’re messed up from the Trickster, but this isn’t healthy. If I—I’m not gonna be around for much longer, and—”

Dean’s words cut off as Sam uses the hand on his neck to jerk him closer. He falls into his brother awkwardly, bare shoulder to mesh-covered chest. As Dean tries to find a way to push himself up without putting his hands in inappropriate places, Sam somehow manages to swing one of his freakishly long legs across his hips.

Dean’s breath catches and he goes still as his brother shifts his weight up and over until he’s straddling Dean’s lap. It’s a cramped, confining position because Sam is huge and the Impala, while spacious, wasn’t exactly built for this kind of thing.

“Sam,” Dean tries, and then Sam lowers his weight down. There’s the creak of leather on leather and the hard, full length of Sam pressing against him. Fuck.

“Are you done?” Sam asks again.

 _No,_ Dean thinks, but Sam’s bulk is pressing him down into the seat, his hard on is an insistent pressure against Dean’s, and it’s taking all of his willpower not to rock up and get some friction. Clenching his jaw, Dean grips the edge of the seat so that his hands won’t find their way somewhere unfortunate.

“Are. You. Done.”

“I, uh—yeah?”

“Good. Because I’m sick of your crap.”

Hoo boy, is Sam pissed again. Dean shifts his eyes to one side and Sam grabs his face, yanking him back.

“You’re not going to die. You’re not going to Hell. I can’t go through that again—I won’t. And you have to decide if you’re going to help me or just sit there and moan about it because I am fucking _done_ with you changing your mind every other second. You decide you aren’t gonna help, fine. I will tie your ass up in the backseat of the car and drag you wherever we need to go.”

“Kinky,” Dean tries. It’s an attempt to lighten the mood, but from the way Sam’s eyes go even wilder it’s unsuccessful.

“Anything it takes,” Sam says. A tic in his cheek jumps furiously as he swallows. “ _Anything._ ”

A nervous tremor runs through Dean’s stomach. ‘Anything’ covers an awful lot, including Sam throwing himself willingly and blindly down whatever path Ruby has laid out for him, making himself something he isn’t: something he shouldn’t ever have to be. Not for someone like Dean.

Sam can’t mean ‘anything’, not really. And yet the desolate, reckless expression on his face tells Dean, quite clearly, that he can and does.

“No,” he whispers, horrified. “Don’t you fucking _dare_. I’m not worth—”

“Don’t,” Sam bites out, and Dean’s alarmed to see that his brother has started crying. “Don’t you say that. You’re worth _everything_. Without you, I can’t—you don’t understand, you don’t have any goddamned idea what I went through, and I can’t. Not again.”

Dean wants to say something reassuring—maybe point out that all Sam ever got to deal with were the first horrible moments after, that he has no clue what kind of comfort he might find when he has more than a few minutes to mourn—but before he can gather his thoughts Sam is continuing.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much, man, and you’re just—you’re just going to have to accept that because I can’t hide it anymore.”

And then they’re kissing again, or Sam is kissing him and he’s letting it happen. Sam’s hands are cradling his face, tilting him up for it, and Dean can taste his brother’s tears on his tongue. He knows that he fucked up with the deal, but he’s never felt it so deeply before, and it’s guilt that brings his own hands up to hold Sam closer.

Guilt isn’t responsible for the way he’s kissing Sam back, though: hungry and desperate as though this is his last night on earth. No, that insatiable, overwhelming thing he feels for Sam that he never, not in a million years, would have imagined went both ways is to blame for that one.

Fuck, Dean never thought it went _this_ way, but apparently it does because he’s achingly hard and rubbing up against Sam like a kid with his first hard on.

Sam breaks the kiss and buries his face against Dean’s neck, hands dropping to grip Dean’s biceps and knead the muscle there rhythmically. “We doing this?” he rumbles against Dean’s skin.

Dean should say no, but he’s too relieved that they’re done with that particular conversation _(for now, anyway)_ to do anything but nod. His hands drift down from his brother's back to grip Sam's ass and the leather drags against his sweat-slicked palms.

Sam shudders at the touch and opens his mouth against Dean’s collarbone, mouthing the skin with little bites. His hold on Dean’s biceps changes, confining instead of comforting, which doesn’t just push but _slams_ into one of those buttons that Dean didn’t know he had a few hours ago. Not much chance he would have ever found them actually; there aren’t a whole lot of women strong enough to overpower him.

Sam’s teeth sink deeper into Dean’s skin, worrying at it, and suddenly Dean can’t think about anything but the way his brother is grinding down onto him. It’s frantic and desperate and not nearly enough: between the leather pants and the cramped space neither of them have enough leverage to get much more than a mild, maddening friction. The intent is there, though, filling the car and clogging Dean’s throat and making him fight to pull his brother even tighter against him.

“Tell me yes,” Sam says as he bites his way up the side of Dean’s neck and across his jaw. “Need you to tell me.”

“Ung,” Dean manages, bucking up uncontrollably. He came less than half an hour ago, but you couldn’t tell it from the way his balls are aching. Feels like Sam’s been keeping him on edge for _months_.

Sam’s right hand releases Dean’s arm and squirms down between them to palm Dean’s cock through the leather. “Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me to fuck you.”

Dean opens his mouth to drag in a breath and the words spill out of him: “Fuck me, fuck me already, come on, fucking do it—”

It takes him a moment to understand that he’s cold because Sam isn’t on top of him anymore—and because the door’s open and letting all the night air in to slide along his overheated skin—and then Sam is dragging him out of the Impala and shoving him up against the cool metal. Dean grabs at the roof, shivering and trying to wrap his head around what the fuck is going on, what he just agreed to, and this is all moving a little too fast for him to keep up.

Sam reaches inside the car, yanks the keys from the ignition, and then slams the door. The eyes he turns to Dean aren’t anywhere near rational: miles away from safe and ravenous on Dean’s skin. There’s no sign that Sam was crying a few minutes ago and Dean thinks, absurdly, that the makeup they bought at the drugstore must be waterproof.

“Hey,” he gasps, and rolls to one side so that his back is leaning against the Impala. “Hold up a second, okay, let’s just—”

Sam honest to god _growls_ at him and yanks him into a kiss that leaves him gasping for breath when he’s released a minute later. His mind is doggedly trying to remember what he was about to say, but it’s a little difficult with Sam hooking his fingers in the waistband of Dean’s pants and pulling him toward the room.

“That’s twice you begged me to fuck you,” Sam says, and then slams Dean up against the wall next to their door. “You’re not getting a take back.”

Dean doesn’t _want_ a take back: he just wants a goddamned time out. He’s about to say as much, but Sam’s got the door open and he hauls Dean inside by one arm, pulls him over to the bed—despite Dean’s best efforts to dig his heels in—and tosses him onto it.

“Enough with the goddamned pushing!” Dean protests as he finally finds his voice.

“Oh please, you like it.”

Yeah, but that’s not the point.

“Besides,” Sam continues, heading back to shut and bolt the door. “You were about half a second away from freaking out again. I would’ve had to pry you off the car with a crowbar.”

“Yeah, well I think I’m entitled!” Dean shouts, pushing up off the bed and onto his own two feet. He’s a little pissed off at how matter of fact Sam’s being about this. His brother has had God knows how long to mull over having some kind of weird-ass relationship—probably had his own share of ‘freak outs’ about it—and Dean’s had … what, half an hour?

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” he continues as Sam turns back to face him. “I’m not _gay_!”

Sam looks at him for all of three seconds before he bursts out laughing. “ _That’s_ your problem with this? That we’re both guys?”

“I’d say that’s a damned big stumbling block,” Dean tries, but Sam’s laughter has already petered out and he has that dark, smoky look again. The one that seems to have fastened a collar and leash on Dean’s stupid, slutty cock when he wasn’t looking. Goddamn it.

With a slight, close-mouthed smile, Sam strips off his shirt and drops it on the floor. His hands go to the buttons on his leather pants and start popping them open and Dean suddenly can’t remember how to breathe.

“So, since you aren’t gay, I guess this isn’t doing anything for you,” Sam says, and pushes his hand inside his pants. His eyes flutter shut and he drops his head back with a low moan.

Dean’s stomach plummets.

“I could just—mmm—pull it out right here and jerk off and you wouldn’t care, right?”

“Sammy,” Dean tries.

Sam’s eyes flash open, hazel darkened to evergreen. “Yeah?” It’s almost a groan as his hand works inside his pants, stomach muscles fluttering with each cramped stroke.

Jesus Christ, like Dean is supposed to remember what he was about to say when Sam is putting on a show like that less than ten feet away.

Luckily, his brother takes pity on him. Pulling his hand free, he crosses the space between them and reaches for Dean. The same hand that was just around Sam’s cock curls around the nape of Dean’s neck. Sam’s thumb and forefinger rub at his skin and it feels so _right_.

“No more hiding, Dean. No more running from what you want.” He tips in and drops a brief, light kiss on Dean’s mouth before pulling back just enough to whisper, “Just let me make you feel good.”

And maybe Dean deserves to go to Hell after all because instead of saying, ‘no’ the way any good big brother should, he shoves his hand down the tantalizing opening in his brother’s pants.

Dean’s never had his hand on another man’s cock, and he’s surprised at how similar it feels to his own: silken soft and warm and responsive. Is that because they’re brothers or is it just a general guy thing? Dean has no way of knowing.

Sam’s hand has gone still on his neck, but as Dean gives a tentative stroke it clenches and Sam lets out a gasp. The crown of his brother’s cock is slick with precome: the leather of his pants sticky against the back of Dean’s hand. He has to wonder how long Sam has been hard to have gotten this messy. Since he jerked Dean off at the club?

“Before,” Sam groans, and Dean realizes that he must have been thinking out loud. “Oh _fuck_ , since—since I finished doing your eyes. You look. Dean, you—” Sam’s words cut off in a punched exhale as Dean lifts his brother’s cock free from his pants.

Dean must have seen Sam naked before, but as he holds his cock—heavy and angrily flushed—he can’t remember ever having done so. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe this thing with Sam is as old as his brother's ability to get hard ons and he spent their youth deliberately hiding himself from Dean. Dean’ll have to think it over later: right now he’s too busy staring at his brother’s dick.

Dean pretty much skipped gym class in high school—wasn’t too keen on explaining his scars to the other guys in the shower—so the majority of the cocks he’s seen have been porno cocks. The guys in those buck fifty rentals weren’t chosen for their good looks, is all he’s saying.

Sam isn’t bigger than all of those dog-faced porn stars, but he’s up there in the top ten. And Dean may be a little prejudiced, but his little brother’s cock is definitely the most gorgeous he’s ever seen.

Dean isn’t gay, he _isn’t_ , but there’s some kind of Sammy-shaped switch inside him that got twisted round and then flipped. As he stares at his brother’s cock, he’s filled with an irresistible desire to find out what it tastes like. What all that soft, hot skin would feel like in his mouth. He’s never been one to over think that kind of impulse, so he sinks to his knees and moistens his lips.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says faintly, staring down at him, and Dean leans forward.

His tongue flicks out in a tentative, light swipe over the head of his brother’s cock. Turns out that Sam tastes like leather and salt and something else that’s bitter and musky but not unpleasant. And his skin is like silk. God, how can something so hard feel so smooth and delicate? So fragile?

 _Gotta be careful_ , Dean thinks, and then edges closer and opens his mouth.

Sam’s cock enters his mouth in a slow glide and although Dean felt the weight of his brother in his hand, it seems different like this. He can smell arousal and _Sam_ , gets more of that bitter musk when he tentatively drags his tongue around the leaking head. He opens his mouth a little to breathe, trying to sort out in his head how he feels, if he likes it.

“Dean, you don’t have to,” Sam offers. His voice sounds strained, like it’s killing him to give Dean that out, but he’s doing it anyway. And he calls Dean self-sacrificing.

Dean pulls off long enough to say, “Just give me a second to figure out what I’m doing, man,” and then, before Sam’s cock has completed the wild, uncontrolled twitch Dean’s words caused, he’s back down.

The flush of heat that fills him at the return of that taste—that smell—clears all of the uncertainty right up for Dean. He likes this. He likes it just fucking fine. Shutting his eyes, he goes to work.

It’s clumsy because he has no fucking clue what he’s doing. He understands the theory well enough, of course, but the girls he’s been with made this look easy and it’s not. Dean keeps scraping his brother’s cock with his teeth, which he knows hurts like a bitch, and chokes if he tries for more than half of him.

After a few minutes, Sam’s hands find his head and grip his hair as best as they can. “Let me, okay?” he says. “Just—open your mouth and let me.”

Shuddering, Dean obeys without a second thought: relaxes his jaw and shifts his hands from Sam’s cock to his hips. There’s something _dirtyrighthot_ about kneeling here while Sam holds his head still and makes shallow, slow thrusts into his mouth. Something that bends his soul in throbbing ways—letting Sam control this, control _him_ —and Dean can’t help but moan around his mouthful of flesh.

Sam is being careful not to go too deep and fast, making Dean feel like something precious and cherished and twisting him up in new and uncomfortable knots. He needs more: needs to feel Sam’s _want_ eating him up the way it did in the club. Needs Sam to hold him in place and just _take_ what Dean’s offering, which is everything.

Always everything for Sammy.

“Mmph,” Dean mumbles, and Sam immediately pulls out.

“Too much?” he asks, sounding breathy and dazed.

Dean steals a moment to work his jaw—a low ache has built from the effort of holding his mouth open for his brother—and then says, “More. I’m not gonna break.”

“Fuck,” Sam groans, pushing back in almost before Dean has finished speaking. He moves faster this time, and drives deeper. Dean chokes a little—his own spit, Sam’s cock, both—but he can taste his brother’s desire now, raw and wild and intoxicating.

Sam groans as Dean fights with his gag reflex and tightens his grip on Dean’s hair. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let up at all, just gathers enough words together to say, “If it’s too much, tap my hip and I’ll stop.”

Dean manages to grunt his understanding and the low moan Sam lets out in return skids against his bones. His brother is thrusting in earnest now, but Dean’s always been a quick learner: is starting to get the hang of relaxing his throat enough to let Sam in deeper. Drool drips down his chin, but he remembers how messy the girls who gave him the best blowjobs always got and lets it happen. Judging from the way Sam is running his mouth above him, Dean’s not doing so bad himself.

“—fuck, the _mouth_ on you—goddamn girly lips, you—so good, so fucking wet for me—letting me—God, you’re _letting_ me—”

Sam’s words cut off abruptly in a choked, almost hurt sound and his grip on Dean’s hair goes painfully tight. There’s a rush of liquid and that bitter taste is everywhere, thick on Dean’s tongue as his brother comes with a series of sharp, shallow thrusts.

Dean can’t think past the fact that he has Sam’s semen in his mouth, but his throat works without waiting for permission. Good thing, too: otherwise he’s pretty sure he would have drowned before Sam finished, and wouldn’t _that_ look fucking awesome on the coroner’s report.

Sam pulls out just a second too soon and Dean ends up catching the last few drops on his lips and chin. He could reach up and wipe his mouth, but instead some puckish impulse makes him lift his eyes to his brother’s—Sam standing over him with his chest heaving and an almost dazed expression on his face—and lick at his lips.

Sam gives a full-bodied shudder and his right hand goes to cup his spent cock. “Don’t fucking _do_ that,” he groans.

But this is first time Dean has felt like he’s had the upper hand since Sam shoved him into the corner of the room and jerked him off. As much as he apparently gets off on Sam taking charge, he isn’t ready to let go of this unexpected advantage just yet.

Besides, teasing Sam? That’s something simple that he can wrap his mind around. Sure, there might be a sexual edge all of a sudden, but this isn’t any different in principle from making sure to slap his brother’s sunburned back every fifteen minutes or so, or switching out the sugar for salt, or giving Sam the mother of all wedgies just before some nice old lady opens the door to her house.

And if Dean is concentrating on driving his brother nuts then he isn’t thinking about how close he was to coming just from the feel of Sam spurting in his mouth.

Holding Sam’s eyes with his own, he slides his tongue out again. Slow. Deliberate. Cleaning his lips and the upper part of his chin.

Heat pushes aside some of the vagueness in Sam’s eyes. “Don’t push me, Dean,” he warns.

The warning sets Dean’s nerves jangling and turns over his stomach in a way that isn’t exactly unpleasant. Letting one corner of his mouth twitch up into a smirk, he leans back and slides his legs far enough apart that the hard line of his cock is clearly visible beneath the black leather.

“What’s wrong, Sammy? Too much for you to handle? Cause I could always go back to the club and find someone willing to take care of this.” He trails his fingers across the hard mound of his cock, taunting.

It isn’t as if Dean is actually going to follow through with it, of course. Sam would have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know when Dean is yanking his chain, and while he can be a bit of a dope at times, he isn’t _stupid_. Then again, Dean may have to rethink his little brother’s intelligence when it comes to certain things because Sam’s expression suddenly goes dark and he hauls Dean to his feet with an iron grip on one arm.

“No more,” Sam growls, dragging him toward the bathroom. Dean’s too taken aback by the violence of his brother’s response to put up much of a struggle. “No more girls, no eyefucking hot guys at gas stations—yeah, I saw you, don’t even try to deny it—no more _anything_ with anyone but me.”

They cross the threshold and Sam yanks Dean front and center with a rough movement. Before he can catch his balance, Sam plants a hand in the center of his back and shoves. Dean staggers forward the few steps to the sink and fetches up against it. He gets a hand on the counter to lever himself up, but Sam is already there, hand between Dean’s shoulder blades and pressing his bare chest down against the chill countertop.

“Get off,” Dean mutters, and tries, futilely, to push against Sam’s weight. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating: Sam is a fucking giant. Makes Dean feel like some kid’s toy, held down with nowhere to go and with six feet four inches of pure muscle looming up behind him.

Jesus.

Sam drapes over him, a feverish counterpoint to the chill leaking into his chest, and Dean’s skin shocks at the contact. “I don’t share,” he announces, and then nudges his way to the side of Dean’s neck and bites down.

Dean squirms as his brother sucks on that patch of skin, mouth deliberately rough as though he’s actually trying to bleed him. Sam’s thumb rubs at the nape of Dean’s neck, his other hand is braced on the counter, his cock is already half-hard against Dean’s ass, and all Dean knows is that it’s getting harder and harder to fill his lungs. He pants onto the counter top until the pressure of his brother’s mouth leaves that murky, grey realm of pleasurable aches behind and crosses into actively painful. Then, wincing, he nudges back with one shoulder.

“Ow! Fuck, enough already!” he complains.

Sam pulls off but doesn’t leave that spot, licking and nuzzling what is undoubtedly the mother of all hickeys until Dean is nothing more than a trembling mess beneath him. “Mine,” he breathes. “Gotta make sure they know when they feel you up with their fucking eyes that that’s all they’re gonna do. Make sure they know you already belong to me.”

Dean kind of wants to point out that he isn’t a damned dog, and that Sam doesn’t fucking _own_ him. But Sam _does_ own him in every way that really matters, and Dean is too busy arching his back as best as he’s able in this position while Sam scrapes blunt teeth over that aching place. Too busy squirming in an attempt to get some friction where he needs it.

Sam pushes forward against Dean’s ass for a second, forcing his cock against the side of the sink, and Dean lets out a low, “Fuck.” His brother’s low chuckle slides underneath his skin and lodges there, but there’s enough amusement in the sound to rouse Dean’s upstairs brain slightly.

“Possessive freak,” he mutters.

“Mmm,” Sam agrees, and edges back to give himself room to trail the hand on Dean’s upper back down his spine. “You gonna let me? You gonna let me mark you up the same way you’re gonna let me fuck you?”

Sam isn’t holding him down anymore—the hand that was restraining him currently sliding around his hipbone to the front—but Dean stays where his brother put him. His nerves are jangling with the effort of staying still, of not mouthing off or trying to take back control of the situation, but there’s a deeper core that has gone lazy and content. Jesus, he actually _wants_ to submit—wants to let Sam control this thing between them.

That’s gotta be Sam’s fault, he decides, pressing his forehead against the mirror. Sam with all of that fucking looming at the club, and being a damned Sasquatch, and _strong_ , and his hands are practically the same size as Dean’s _head_ for crying out loud. Sam’s obviously cheating, and therefore Dean isn’t responsible for any reaction he might be having right now.

What? It’s perfectly logical.

The hickey on Dean’s neck stings like a motherfucker, but it isn’t quite so bad that Sam doesn’t find him hard and needy when he cups Dean’s cock through the leather pants. The confused noise in Dean’s head quiets as he surrenders to the surge of warmth through his crotch and pushes forward against his brother’s hand.

“You remember what I promised?” Sam whispers. Moving his hand higher, he starts popping the buttons on Dean’s pants with dexterous flicks of his fingers.

Fuck, how does he expect Dean to remember _anything_ when he’s doing that? When he’s yanking Dean’s pants open and pushing them down around his ankles and leaving him bare-assed and bent over the fucking bathroom counter?

“Lift your feet for me,” Sam tells him.

Dean bites his lip and complies: lets Sam strip him completely—shoes and socks and pants—until he’s naked and trembling beneath his brother’s gaze. He can’t see Sam’s face, but he can feel his eyes: knows Sam is looking. Knows that Sam can see his need like neon paint all over his skin.

 _Don’t,_ Dean wants to plead, because even though it's Sam, he hates being this exposed: has to struggle to push down the urge to hide himself. But he also wants to beg Sam to come closer, to touch him, to force all of the jagged, messy edges inside of him into line.

But Sam doesn’t touch him. He just _looks_ until Dean can’t help but shift a little and then murmurs, “Beautiful,” in a low voice that goes straight to Dean’s cock. As Dean grips the counter and tries to control his breathing, he can hear his brother moving around behind him: stripping off his own shoes and pants and tossing them carelessly on the floor. One shoe thuds heavily into the shower.

Sam is noiseless on his bare feet when he moves close again and settles his hands on Dean’s waist, though, and Dean startles at the touch. Sam tightens his grip like he’s worried Dean is going to try to get away, which is such a laughable concern that Dean’s breath huffs out shakily. Then Sam steps up into him, not quite hard yet but working back up to it, and Dean can’t help tensing up further.

“S’okay,” Sam tells him, sliding his hands up and down a bit in a soothing caress. “We’ll go slow.”

“You call this slow?” Dean says as his brother’s hands trace from his hips over his ass and back again. But it isn’t really a complaint, and he knows that Sam can tell from the way he’s tilting up for the touch.

Moving his arm around, Dean slides his head down from the mirror and rests it against the softer pillow of his own forearm. It’s darker here, and he can smell himself: sweat and the precome leaking from his cock as it bumps against the side of the counter.

“Well, I didn’t fuck you against the wall in the club,” Sam points out.

 _Like I would’ve let you,_ Dean wants to say, but it wouldn’t be true and they both know it. Sam had him so strung out he could have thrown Dean up onto the bar and fucked him while the entire goddamned club looked on and he would’ve begged for more. Sam chuckles like he knows what Dean’s thinking—maybe he does, kid can be freaky like that sometimes—and then sobers again as he folds himself closer and lays a slow, open mouthed kiss against Dean’s left shoulder blade.

“Wanted you for so long,” he whispers. “Wanted this.” His hands slide up Dean’s sides, restless. “I didn’t think you’d let me—didn’t think you wanted me.”

“What changed?” Dean asks. “Why—in the club, w-why did you—” His breath stutters as Sam’s nails catch against his skin. His right hand clenches into a fist and then opens again.

Sam lets out a shaky laugh. “God, you have no fucking idea, do you?”

Before Dean can ask what the hell _that’s_ supposed to mean, Sam forces his hands between Dean’s chest and the counter. Dean feels his heart pound twice against Sam’s palm and then his brother hauls him back. He’s still crowded up against the counter, but he’s standing now, back pressed against Sam’s chest.

Sam nips at his earlobe and then orders, “Look at yourself.”

Dean raises his eyes slowly. He sees Sam first like always: Sam’s eyes gone fox slanting and almost feral beneath the eyeliner. Sam’s hair falling around his face; one of his shoulders jutting out past Dean’s, the other hidden by Dean’s body; Sam’s enormous hands on Dean’s chest and stomach.

Dean takes his own reflection in as an afterthought, in slivers and fractured pieces.

Spike of dark hair. Smatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Dark, purpling mark of _Sam’sSam’sSam’s_ on the side of his neck. Broad chest: more of those embarrassing freckles, gold glint of his amulet, anti-possession tattoo that Sam sucked on at the club _(bruise forming there, too, he notes)_.

He meets his own gaze last: finds his eyes wide and blown, the irises just a thin ring of lime around liquid black pupils.

It isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. Dean knows he’s good looking: has never had trouble picking up a chick for a quick rough and tumble out back or a blow job in the bathroom. But the way Sam is watching Dean over his shoulder changes things subtly, and then there’s the dark smudge of makeup around his eyes.

Dean thought he’d look softer with the eyeliner on: more feminine. But instead he looks … other. Like something that isn’t quite human.

“See?” Sam asks, and kisses the top of his shoulder without dropping his eyes from their reflection. “I couldn’t keep my hands off you, man. Not with all of them staring at you, wanting you. Fuck, Dean, they all wanted you, but you were mine first.”

 _Never was anyone else’s_ , Dean thinks, watching as Sam kisses his way along his shoulder and up to the side of his neck. He’s not so out of it that he’s gonna actually say something as girly as that, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and tilts his head to the side. Lets his brother worry at that aching, bruised spot until he’s squirming in Sam’s arms.

He can’t take his eyes off of their reflection. Thinks he might be a little enthralled by the way they look in the mirror, or maybe by the reverence in the way Sam’s mouth and hands are touching him: needing him.

Or maybe he’s just really fucking horny.

Sam bites down, getting a strip of Dean’s skin in his mouth, and then swipes his tongue across it without letting go. Dean has absolutely no control over the choked, almost desperate sound he makes in response. He feels Sam smile against his throat—sees the corner of his brother’s lips twitch up in the mirror—and then Sam releases him.

“Did you say something?” he asks.

Any other time, the smug glee in his brother’s voice would put Dean into the same competitive mood that leads to Nair in the shampoo bottles and super glue on the beer, but he’s too far gone for that now.

“Please,” he groans, and immediately flushes at the way Sam’s eyes go even darker.

“Please what?” Sam asks, but Dean can tell he already knows. He just wants to make Dean say it, the bastard.

And Dean must have left his pride somewhere on the floor of the River Lethe because he just closes his eyes and says, “Please fuck me.”

His cock gives a sudden leap at the sound of his own voice. Begging. Fuck, he sounds wrecked.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “But you need to open your eyes. Want to see you. Want to watch you watch yourself come apart for me.”

“Jesus,” Dean swears, low and rough. He keeps his eyes shut: partly from a last, desperate surge of stubbornness, but mostly because he’s pretty sure he’ll have a heart attack if he does what Sam is telling him to.

“Come on,” Sam urges, brushing one hand across Dean’s cheekbone.

“I can’t,” Dean whispers, turning his head to one side. “Sam, I’m gonna—” _Come_ , he’s going to say, but he suddenly he’s choking on the word because Sam’s other hand has wandered down to grip his cock.

“You can,” Sam insists. Still stroking Dean’s cheek, he starts to jack Dean with the same methodical movements he used at the club. Which is Not Helping Dean’s control issue. “Look at us. Look how fucking gorgeous you are.”

Dean is trembling with helpless little jerks, the last of his rational thoughts sliding irrevocably south as Sam keeps sliding that huge paw over Dean’s leaking cock. He keeps whispering in Dean’s ear, telling him to open his eyes, to look, and God, Dean can’t resist anymore.

He brings his head back around and forces his eyes open. Sees the depth of the hunger on Sam’s face, the raw need in his own, and comes with a yell. Sam strokes him through it, holding Dean up with an arm around his chest and murmuring soft words in his ear.

“Shh, so beautiful. You’re okay, man, I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

Spent, Dean slumps against his brother’s chest and blinks at the strands of come smeared on the countertop. Sam is still cradling his cock, rubbing his thumb back and forth along the slowly softening length of him. His head rests lightly on Dean’s shoulder: his eyes are fascinated and intent on Dean’s face.

“Tried to warn you,” Dean pants when he can make his voice work again.

“S’okay,” Sam tells him. “It’ll make this easier.”

 _Make_ what _easier?_ Dean wants to demand, but he just came twice in an hour and he wants to enjoy the languid buzz rolling through his body. He doesn’t even have the energy to protest as Sam lowers him back down against the counter. Feels his stomach and chest slide through the mess he made of it and doesn’t really give a fuck. He lets his forehead thump into the mirror and shuts his eyes again, muscles as limp as they can be without dropping him to the floor.

Dean’s always been pretty useless after an orgasm, and the weightless way his muscles give out on him seems to be directly proportional to how hard he came. After not one but two mind-blowing climaxes, and without a proper chance to rest between, his body is more than ready to shut down for a while.

He listens idly to Sam moving around—heading out to the other room for some reason—and lets his thoughts drift. He can’t remember the last time his chest felt this loose and light. Can’t remember _ever_ feeling this safe, and needed, and loved.

Despite the awkward position he’s in, Dean is already more than half-asleep when he feels his brother’s hands slide down his flank again. Sam’s hands are fucking awesome. Dean’s considering nominating them for the Nobel Peace Prize. Careful not to rub his spent cock against the counter, he rolls his hips at the touch.

Sam trails his hands lower until they’re resting just under Dean’s ass. Dean lets the suggestion in his brother’s probing fingers nudge his legs further apart and then mumbles in appreciation as Sam strokes the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“So good for me,” Sam murmurs.

Dean’s chest glows a little at the praise. “Feels good,” he slurs, trying to get his legs wide enough that Sam can reach everywhere. “Don’ stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Sam says.

The amusement in his brother’s voice sets off warning bells all over the place and Dean forces one of his eyes up to half-mast. Sam is watching him in the mirror, lips slightly parted and color high in his cheeks. When he sees that Dean is looking back at him, he pulls one hand out from between Dean’s thighs and leans over to grab something off the counter. What he went into the other room for, maybe? Dean isn’t at the right angle to see what Sam is doing, but he hears the snap of something opening and a moment later Sam’s fingers are back, cold and slick and slipping easily along the crack of his ass.

Dean’s weary mind is still playing catch up, so when he tries to close his legs and straighten, it’s just because whatever Sam put on his fingers is fucking freezing. Sam shoves a knee between Dean’s legs and puts his other hand on the small of his back and holds him there. It can’t be difficult when Dean is this exhausted, but it’s still a reminder of Sam’s size, and his strength, and a little thrill of excitement goes through Dean’s stomach.

“Shh, just relax,” Sam tells him. Dean has a feeling he’s heard that before somewhere, maybe recently, maybe tonight. Combined with the sensation of Sam’s uncomfortably slick fingers gliding restlessly along the crease of Dean’s ass, those words make his pulse stutter nervously.

“Sam,” he says, tongue too thick in his mouth. “What are you—”

And then Sam finds what he’s slowly been zeroing in on and Dean’s words cut off in a gasp that’s part realization and part uncontrollable reaction.

“Gonna open you slow,” Sam promises. He makes tiny circles with one of the slick fingers pressed up against Dean’s hole, not dipping inside yet but considering it. Making Dean consider it. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

Dean is completely back with the living now, his eyes open wide and his breath coming far too quickly. A sloppy blowjob in the bedroom, a hand job in the darkened corner of a club … that’s one thing. But Sam is about to fuck him.

The whole idea was fine in theory—was more than fine when Sam had his finger moving in and out of him, filling him with those shocky bursts of pleasure that he’d never felt before—but now that Dean’s actually here he has a few reservations.

One: Sam’s cock is huge.

Two: Sam is hung like a fucking horse.

Three: Sam is packing a goddamned rocket launcher.

Dean could go on, but that kind of thinking is only going to lead to panic and he’d like to get out of this with a shred of dignity _(and his ass)_ intact.

“Wait,” he blurts, trying to push up again. It’s as useless as it was last time, Sam holding him effortlessly down with a hand against the small of Dean’s back while his finger circles Dean’s hole in relentless, numbing movements. Despite his growing apprehension, Dean’s wiring is fucked up enough that his cock is valiantly trying to take interest in the proceedings again anyway.

Great. Not like he isn’t already confused enough about what he wants.

“You said you wanted this,” Sam reminds him implacably.

When Dean lifts his head, he finds all of Sam’s focus directed at what he’s doing to Dean’s ass. There’s a tiny line of concentration between his brother’s eyebrows as he pushes the tip of his finger forward. The pressure is a promise of penetration that makes Dean’s inner muscles twitch with the memory of what it had felt like to have Sam’s finger moving inside of him. Of how good it was.

“That was before I knew you were walking around with a fucking yardstick down your pants,” Dean bites out. He can’t tell if he’s pissed at his body for craving Sam’s touch so strongly, or if he’s freaking out about the prospect of Sam fucking him like he’s a chick, or if he just wants Sam to shut him up and do him already.

Then Sam raises his eyes to Dean’s and leans forward. His weight drapes over Dean’s back: slides Dean against the semen-smeared counter. The Cock That Fucked Cleveland prods hungrily at the back of Dean’s thigh and Sam’s finger slides forward a fraction of a centimeter before coming to a stop, just on the verge of breaching him.

The amount of effort it takes Dean to keep from jerking his hips back and taking Sam’s finger himself answers the question of what he wants easily enough, but it doesn’t stop him from being scared shitless. Fuck, this is gonna hurt, and as much as he apparently gets off on Sam manhandling him, Dean sure as hell doesn’t get off on pain. A drunken, acid-laced and incredibly regrettable night with a waitress from Tallahassee told him that much.

“Chicken?” Sam whispers.

 

The suggestion in his voice turns the word into something more than a challenge—into a promise—and Dean’s fear is suddenly overwhelmed by a rush of _needwantnow_.

“No,” he mumbles, tongue clumsy in his mouth.

“You’re gonna be able to feel me for days, Dean,” Sam announces, nosing at Dean’s hair. “Gonna fuck you hard and deep enough that you’re gonna have to spend tomorrow in bed.” He licks along the edge of Dean’s ear and then that rough, deep voice breathes, “Don’t think I’m gonna be able to keep my hands to myself.”

Dean’s entire body pulses with warmth, his cock throbs with growing interest, and he moans. Squeezes his eyes shut so that he doesn’t have to see himself looking so raw.

“Or we could just stop,” Sam adds in a completely different tone of voice, light and careless, and then starts to _pull away_ , the fucker.

Dean flails out with one hand and grips the back of his brother’s thigh. Sam lets him pull their lower bodies flush again, trapping Sam’s hand between them.

“Put your money where your mouth is,” he says. The words scrape against his dry throat, but despite his apprehension he’s never wanted anything this much before. Then the tip of Sam’s finger sinks into him— _oh God_ —and his lips part in a moan.

Sam’s left hand comes down on Dean’s hip to hold him steady while that finger pushes forward. It doesn’t burn as badly as it did at the club—thank God for whoever invented lube—but it’s still an alien, invasive feeling, and Dean can’t help tensing up.

“Shh,” Sam soothes. “I’ve got you.”

Dean opens his mouth to tell Sam to shut the fuck up before he gets a well-deserved elbow to the face, but that’s when his brother hits that shocking, intense place inside him. An incoherent, pleased noise breaks from his lips instead and he widens his stance. Cants his hips up and back as Sam’s finger slides in and out of him, unerringly hitting just the right spot to light his nerves up with trembling fire.

“That’s it,” Sam murmurs, encouraging, and a traces a second finger around Dean’s entrance.

Sam waits until Dean is almost as mindless as he was in the club, until he’s rocking back greedily, and then pushes that second digit forward. Dean’s hips jerk, startled, as both of his brother’s fingers slide past the outer ring of muscle, and then he makes himself hold still through the spreading burn. He’s sweating steadily—part nerves, part want—and the hand he tries to grip onto the rim of the mirror with keeps slipping.

Sam’s fingers bottom out and he pauses, giving Dean a moment to get used to the thicker, stuffed feeling. Then, just when he’s starting to think this won’t be so bad after all, his brother starts opening him up for real: twisting his fingers and then scissoring them a bit, and generally spreading a deep, throbbing ache through Dean’s insides.

Dean would call it off, but every time he opens his mouth to do so Sam hits that sweet spot again and he has to swallow the words in order to avoid making any more embarrassing, slutty noises. Sam isn’t talking anymore, too focused on what he’s doing, leaving the bathroom completely silent except for the sound of their breathing and Dean’s own heartbeat racing in his head.

Time stretches out, taffy-like, and he isn’t sure how long it takes for the ache to finally subside and the ‘okay, feels good’ to bloom into ‘fuck yeah, more’. It’s long enough that his cock is able to take interest in the proceedings again, but not so long that the increased flow of blood isn’t a little painful in and of itself. Dean’s heard of guys who have little to no recovery time, and normally he himself can manage at least two rounds in fairly quick succession, but that’s with a period of blissful rest in between.

If Dean manages to get off the ground, then this is gonna be his third erection in under two hours. Add to that the fact that Sam has been keeping him on edge since the club and Dean is vaguely surprised that his dick hasn’t sent up a white flag yet.

His hips are moving without his permission, though: rolling in tight circles in an attempt to send off more of those awesome sparks. Sam loosens his hold on Dean’s hip and Dean takes the opportunity to rock back and forth. Sam stops moving his fingers and lets Dean do the work, fingers sliding wetly out and in as Dean moves forward and then back again. That glide—the feeling of being penetrated—is almost as arousing as those bursts of pleasure and Dean drops his head forward, making a small, helpless noise.

Sam’s hand pulls back, fingers sliding almost completely free, and when Dean tries to follow he holds him still. “You okay?”

It takes Dean a few seconds to blink through the emptiness in his ass to understand what Sam is asking. When he figures it out, his first, instinctive answer is ‘hell no.’ He’s on the opposite side of the fucking country from okay. He’s Dean fucking Winchester, and he doesn’t take it up the ass from anyone, let alone his _brother_. But here he is, being spread open for it and so desperate to be taken that he’s fucking down on Sam’s fingers without any urging, and his weary cock is getting hard again.

The worst part has nothing to do with Sam’s hands or his ass or cock, though. No, the worst part is how this is taking Dean apart from the inside out. The worst part is the way Sam is sliding even further underneath Dean’s skin where there’s too much of him already.

At the very root of the problem—the thing that makes Dean want to shy away and hide himself—is the effortless way Sam peeled back the strong walls that Dean depends on—that he _needs_ , damn it—and exposed all of the vulnerable, yearning places inside him. And he isn’t running away: he’s wrapping himself around Dean instead and blanketing him with warmth and a cherishing devotion that’s almost like worship.

Dean’s never felt so loved in his life and it’s fucking terrifying.

“Dean,” Sam says, “Talk to me, man.”

God, what is he supposed to _say_?

Dean can’t deal with this now. Going forward will just make the mess of emotions inside of him worse, but if he balks now Sam is going to want to _talk_. Far easier to center himself in his body and just let this take them wherever it will. Deal with fallout sometime when his dick isn’t shouting at him.

“More,” he pants, writhing against his brother’s restraining hand. “C’mon, I can take more.”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters in a shaky voice, and then, more strongly, “Yeah, okay. Hang on.”

When Sam takes even the tips of his fingers away, Dean hears a whimpering sound: knows it came out of his throat and is too strung out to do anything about it. Sam’s hand lifts again from his back but he stays where he is, legs wide and ass up and waiting for Sam to get back to business.

“Dean,” Sam breathes from behind him, and one hand carefully spreads the cheeks of his ass apart. “God, you’re gorgeous.” Then Sam’s fingers are back to nudge at his entrance—not just two but three—and the fresh coating of lube slots them right inside.

Dean gasps, shuddering at both at the abrupt, renewed ache and the cold: it almost feels like Sam just shoved an ice cube up his ass. Sam doesn’t give him time to adjust either: just starts working all three fingers around with that same, steady twist and gape he used when there were only two. The lube warms quickly, but this time the ache lingers.

It isn’t painful enough to dampen his arousal, and he remembers how good it felt when he got past that feeling last time, but Dean can’t help thinking that Sam’s cock is a hell of a lot bigger than a couple of fingers. It’s longer, too, which is also going to pose a problem.

His stomach starts to tilt to one side anxiously and then Sam reaches underneath Dean and grips his half-hard cock.

“Fuck!” Dean blurts, biting his lower lip and digging his fingers into the counter. His cock fills so quickly it hurts, rising to bump against the side of the counter while Sam’s hand slides over it, down to his balls, and then back up again.

“Come on,” Sam says. “Come on, baby, you’re doing great.”

“Don’t—don’t need a fuh—fucking _pep talk_ , asshole,” Dean grates out. “And I told y-you not to c-call me—ngh—that.” His body is moving of its own accord again, thrusting him forward against his brother’s hand and then back onto his fingers. He’s never had sex this good. Not fucking _ever_.

Either Sam is some kind of sex-god or Dean is maybe a little bit gay.

“You’re talking too much,” Sam says. “I must not be doing this right.”

Dean’s of the opinion that Sam is doing just fine, but suddenly all three of his brother’s fingers are pressing against that blinding spot inside of him, stroking and massaging and— _holyfuckingGod_ —Sam was holding out on him. He chokes on his own spit, raps his head against the mirror, and keens low in his throat.

Sam is panting and worshipful in his ear— _beautiful, so beautiful, yeah, baby, just like that_. Each tiny kiss that peppers his cheek and neck is shattering, making his chest ache almost as much as his cock and ass. God, he’s open—so damned open—and Sam is everywhere. Dean turns his head to one side and gets a noseful of his brother’s hair: the scent of Sam hitting him low and hard.

He can feel his approaching orgasm as a building warmth in his belly and a weakness in his legs: hears it in the way his breath stutters. Sam obviously senses it as well—maybe knows some of Dean’s tells from the years they spent growing up in each other’s back pockets—because he says, “Not yet,” and drags their cheeks together.

Dean moans and twists his head around further: finds Sam’s lips and kisses him, hungry. _Gonna come,_ he thinks, shoving his tongue in Sam’s mouth. Yeah, he’s gonna come and it’s gonna be both fanfuckingtastic and devastating. It’s gonna be ‘the earth moved and the heavens opened’ big.

Sam breaks the kiss and growls, “Don’t you fucking come yet—that’s an order, Dean.”

Like that’s gonna make a difference when Sam is playing Dean’s body with the same, steady competence he uses to clean their knives. If Sam was serious, he’d stop fucking Dean open with his fingers: he’d stop stroking Dean’s cock and sliding his chest along Dean’s back.

But Dean finds himself groaning with frustration and trying to put the breaks on the cresting tsunami inside of him. He’s being dragged toward the edge … closer … almost there … And then he lets out a choking cry and yanks back from the precipice.

He doesn’t so much white out as he loses himself in the agony of denial. When he finds his way out again, his brother’s fingers are still moving inside of him while Sam’s other hand lazily strokes Dean’s balls. Dean is still hard, of course. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard before. Hell, he didn’t think it was _possible_ to be this hard.

Sam is a fucking control freak and a sadist and Dean is going to kill him as soon as he’s allowed to come.

“Back with me, baby?” Sam purrs against his neck.

There’s a smirk in his voice as he uses the endearment, turning it into a challenge. Dean kind of wants to snap at him for it, but mostly … well, mostly he doesn’t mind so much. Smirking or not, there’s an undeniable depth of love in Sam’s voice when he says it. Yeah, it’s girly as hell, but this is Sam he’s dealing with. Dean is lucky his brother isn’t trying to call him ‘pookie’ or ‘muffin’ or some shit like that.

Besides, a sarcastic response would require talking, and all Dean seems capable of at the moment are breathy gasps.

Then Sam’s fingers drive into that spot again, relentless, and Dean’s gasps break into a rasping cry.

“Yeah, you’re back.” Little bitch sounds _smug_. If ninety-nine percent of Dean’s attention weren’t focused on keeping himself from shooting all over the counter again, then he’d have something to say about that. He fully _intends_ to say something once the crisis is over, but every time he starts to come off that delirious edge a little, Sam shoves him right back with a flick of his fingers.

His brother keeps him there for what feels like hours, alternating between stretching him and toying with that sexyhot place inside of him. The fourth time Dean almost loses control, Sam takes his hand away from his cock and curls it around his hip again.

It only makes everything worse. Now there’s nothing to distract him from what Sam’s fingers are doing inside of him.

Eventually, the burn of being stretched fades completely and leaves Dean with nothing but a full, heavy sensation. He twists against the counter while Sam torments him, letting out an endless, incoherent stream of noises that he can’t stop and which only seem to egg Sam on. His entire body is one throbbing knot of need.

If Sam doesn’t stop fucking around and start fucking _him_ soon, then Dean is going to be in real danger of passing out. And no. Not before he gets what Sam has been promising him all night.

“Please,” he begs. His voice is so cracked and ruined that he doesn’t recognize it at first, but the relentless movement of Sam’s fingers inside of him slows, so Dean licks his lips and tries again.

“Please fuck me—Sam, come on—please, I need—oh God, _please_ , Sammy—”

Sam yanks his fingers free with an abruptness that makes Dean sob. Fuck, he thought he felt empty before, but that was nothing compared to now. He feels hollowed out: bereft. He aches inside with loss of his brother’s fingers, and panic seeps in through the edges of his arousal.

God, he _needs_ this. Can’t Sam see how much he needs it? Damn it all to fucking hell, if Sam screws with him any more, then Dean is going to break down crying right here: naked and panting into the cracked sink of a motel whose name he can’t even remember, if he ever bothered to learn it at all. Christ, he couldn’t even say what _state_ they’re in right now, doesn’t know anything except that Sam brought him here and then left him, the bastard, left him _again_ , and—

And something huge and blunt and slick nudges against his opening.

Dean sobs again, this time in relief, and Sam rubs his side and makes a shushing sound. “S’okay, baby. I’m right here. Gonna take care of you.”

Dean fumbles back with one hand and gets a hold of Sam’s hip. Tries to pull him forward and in. “Please,” he’s whispering over and over again. “Please please please.”

Keeping his lower body still, Sam bends down and takes Dean’s words into his own mouth. He kisses Dean slow and thorough, one hand restless along Dean’s side and the other holding his head steady. The frantic _neednowplease_ pounding through Dean’s body eases gradually, relaxing to match Sam’s mouth on his, the slick slide of their tongues together.

When Sam finally breaks the kiss, Dean is still trembling but he feels secure in his own skin again. Sam’s hand cups the side of his face, gentle, and Dean tilts into the touch.

“So beautiful. So perfect.”

“Sam,” Dean manages.

“I’ve got you, Dean. Just trust me.”

Trust Sam. As if it’s possible for Dean to do anything else. He nods anyway, and Sam rewards him with a brief, almost chaste kiss. As Sam straightens again, his cock pushes forward, slick-slides over Dean’s entrance, and Dean lets his head fall forward, moaning.

“Head up and eyes open.”

Sam’s voice is soft but inflexible, and Dean can tell that he isn’t getting fucked until he does what his brother wants. He makes an effort and remembers how to make his neck muscles work. His head feels heavier than it should, and he’s too frightened of who he’ll see looking back at him to open his eyes.

“Look at me,” Sam breathes, and his hands soothe up Dean’s back. “It’s okay, baby, you’re fine, just gotta do this for me, okay?”

Dean opens his eyes and meets his brother’s gaze in the mirror without seeing much of his own reflection. Sam’s staring back at him with such fierce devotion and desire that Dean’s stomach clenches painfully. He isn’t sure that he can be whoever Sam thinks he’s looking at. Knows that he’ll bend over backwards to try anyway: do anything to be worthy of that much faith.

“You ready?” Sam asks.

As romantic lines go, it kinda sucks. Then again, Dean never really was one for romance.

“Yeah,” he croaks, and Sam’s hands slide down and grip his hips.

There’s no further warning, just Sam pressing forward and inexorably breaching him. Despite the fact that he needs this almost as much as he needs air, Dean makes a high, panicked noise and tries to scramble away. Sam leans on him, holding him down against the counter with his hands and torso and keeping his legs open with his lower body.

He’s talking again, voice low and droning. Telling Dean to relax, as if that’s going to happen when Sam is shoving what feels like a fucking baseball bat up his ass.

It takes Dean a while to realize that his brother has stopped pushing deeper, and that his words have changed from ‘just relax, let it happen, gonna be fine’ to ‘look at me, see me, come on, baby, open your eyes.’ After another minute or so that he spends trying to think through the panic and the burn in his ass, Dean figures out that he scrunched his eyes shut the second Sam started to enter him.

A rush of embarrassed guilt warms his chest. Gay guys—guys who are a hell of a lot girlier than Dean—do this all the time, and he’s pretty sure they do it without whining about a little burn. Okay, so maybe not all of them have a partner as insanely endowed as Sam, but it’s the principle of the thing. If Dean’s doing this—and he is, can’t turn back now, doesn’t want to—then he’s gonna take it like a man, damn it.

Dean lets out a long, shuddering breath and opens his eyes. Sam is sweating, worry and wonder and want openly at war on his face, but when he sees Dean looking back he doesn’t even hesitate before offering, “We can stop.”

Fuck that.

Dean gives his head a sharp shake. Clenching his jaw, he forces the rest of his body to relax, muscle by muscle. Feels his center opening to Sam bit by bit: not welcoming, exactly, but not boarded up and padlocked shut anymore either.

When he’s as ready as he’s ever gonna be, he rasps, “Okay, go.”

Sam hesitates a moment longer, eyes calculating, and then takes Dean at his word and pushes in. It burns—it burns like hell—and Dean can hear himself grunting while Sam fucks himself deeper with little twitches of his hips. Within moments, Dean is drenched and shaking and Sam just keeps on coming.

Dean can’t tear his eyes away from his brother’s. Sam’s face has gone strangely devastated, and his shoulders jerk with every hitch of his hips. Dean feels hair underneath his fingers and realizes that he’s got his hand on Sam’s sweaty thigh again and is trying to get him deeper.

“Come on, Sammy, want you inside me, want this, come on.” It’s his voice, he knows that, but he doesn’t remember making a conscious decision to say anything.

Sam grunts low and pained and now Dean would be really worried about his brother except Sam is collapsing down across his body and yanking Dean’s head around with both hands and kissing him deep and rough and _perfect_.

“So fucking good,” Sam babbles when he comes up for air. “Dean, you feel—you’re so—”

Dean has nothing. He’s too stunned by the fact that the twitching, invasive girth in his ass belongs to Sam—and there seems to be even _more_ of it because Sam grunts and shoves forward and the burn shoots deeper. Letting out a shout that makes a distant, embarrassed part of him hope their neighbors are either out for the night or really deep sleepers, Dean thunks his head against the mirror again. His hand, no longer receiving any kind of meaningful instruction, falls away from his brother’s thigh to dangle limply at his side.

Sam’s body is flush with Dean’s now: his cock fully sheathed inside of him and his balls nestled up against Dean’s ass. No condom, Dean realizes, nothing between them at all but a little—okay, a lot—of lube. That’s really fucking stupid considering Dean’s history, and he’s gonna yell at Sam for it later, but right now the idea of Sam’s skin rubbing up against his insides is making Dean’s cock, which went mostly soft again while Sam worked his way inside, revive slightly.

“Fuck,” Sam says, sounding dazed, and kisses him again. “Can I? God, I need—I need to move, Dean, I—”

“Yeah. Yeah go,” Dean says. The burn hasn’t lessened at all, but he’s fairly certain that it isn’t going to unless Sam does something. Besides, Sam sounds so fucking _desperate_ and Dean doesn’t have it in him to make his brother wait.

Pulling himself together enough to get a grip on the counter, Dean hangs on while Sam starts fucking him. Sam goes slow at first—probably because Dean is too tight and Sam is too big to do this any other way—and then, after he pulls almost all the way out and squeezes what feels like half a tube of lube over his cock and Dean’s hole, faster.

The burn fades a little, but doesn’t disappear completely, and the dragging rub of Sam’s cock against his insides is such a weird, intimate feeling that Dean can’t manage to get more than half hard. He’s pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he’s just going to get through this when Sam wraps an oversized hand around his upper thigh. Before he knows what’s happening, Dean finds his leg yanked up and his knee skids onto the counter top with the rest of him.

Spread open like this, Dean feels even more exposed than before, but when Sam thrusts in again, the sweet spot at Dean’s center doesn’t just spark but _explodes_. His breath stutters out like he’s been punched and his muscles spasm.

 _Jesus_ , he thinks faintly.

Sam adjusts his grip on Dean’s thigh, holding him wide, and sets up a slow, steady pace at the new angle. His muscles—chest, arms, stomach—ripple as he holds Dean in place: as he fucks in. His throat works, skin sweat-slick and shining. His eyes are heated and so damned intent that Dean is certain his brother can see straight down to his bones.

When he shifts his gaze to his own reflection, Dean doesn’t recognize himself. The stunned man with the half-lidded, pleasure-fogged eyes doesn’t have anything to do with him. He’s too pretty: too submissive and strung out beneath Sam’s hands.

Then again, Dean doesn’t really feel like himself, either. Sam has broken him open and spilled him out and is currently rubbing himself all over every fractured piece he can get a hold of. For the first time in more years than he can count, Dean has been stripped of his armor and he doesn’t know if he’s gonna be able to piece it back together again once Sam is done feeling up his insides.

He can’t worry about that now, though. It’s too difficult to concentrate when he’s fully hard again and rutting forward against the counter and then back into Sam like a bitch in heat. The only reason he isn’t moaning like a thousand dollar hooker is that he’s panting too hard for breath to manage it.

As if what he’s doing to Dean’s body isn’t enough, Sam is _talking_ again: a stream of cherishing words in that rough, honey-thick voice that laps over Dean’s skin like a cat’s tongue.

“—so fucking tight, baby—God, you feel so good—love you—love watching you come apart—for me—just for me, you—no one else gets this, not _ever_ —gonna keep you here, right here, always, just—so open for me and shaking, fuck—come on, just—wider, baby, come on—”

He pulls on Dean’s leg, stretching him open just a little bit more, and if this gets any better, then Dean’s heart is just gonna give up on him. He’s used to the friction of Sam’s cock as it slots in and out of him now, and that’s turning him on just as much as the way Sam keeps pounding against the sweet, shocky place inside. The feel of Sam moving in him, claiming him, owning him, is a drug he’s already addicted to.

Dean can’t keep the crushing weight of ecstasy from his expression when he lifts his gaze to Sam’s in the mirror. His brother’s eyes are sharp beneath the lust and the pleasure, and Dean knows that Sam is seeing this, seeing everything he’s doing to him. More, he knows that Sam likes it, that Sam is getting off on it, and then his orgasm hits him like a fucking freight train.

All of Dean’s muscles tighten up as he comes, and Sam’s words cut off in a moan behind him. With his channel clenched, Sam’s cock feels ten times bigger: obvious and pulsing. Dean makes a confused noise halfway between a moan and a sob as a second, violent burst of pleasure rides the tail end of his orgasm like an echo. Sam loses his grip on Dean’s leg—or maybe he lets it go, Dean isn’t rational enough at this point to tell—and it crashes back down to the floor while his cock lets loose a final, weak spurt against the side of the counter.

Sam’s totally cleaning this shit up.

Dropping his head down onto his forearms, Dean shuts his eyes and tilts his hips back in an effort to keep his sensitive cock from rubbing against the counter. Sam lets him hide his face, thank God, and wraps both of his hands around Dean’s waist. Pulls him back into each snap of his hips, like he can get deeper if he only tries hard enough.

Dean pants, his cock exhausted and softening despite the waves of arousal that are still running through him. It leaves him with a weird, floating feeling. As he hangs limply in the afterglow of his orgasm, the moaning gasps he makes between breaths sound more pained than needy. Behind him, Sam is still going strong, hammering that sweet, shocky spot over and over, and Dean can’t take much more of this.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to find out whether his dick would have woken up again before he blacked out from over stimulation or vice-versa because Sam gives one last series of stuttering, shallow thrusts and then comes with Dean’s name on his lips. Dean doesn’t feel the spill of his brother’s semen at first, but after a few seconds he can tell the difference in the smoother, wetter glide of Sam’s cock through him.

Sam keeps thrusting mindlessly through his orgasm and then, finally, collapses on top of Dean and crushes him against the counter. Dean can’t find the strength to object beyond a single, weak grunt. His brother immediately starts kissing him—shoulder, crook of his neck, cheek—and Dean smiles sleepily against the counter top where he can’t be seen.

God, Sam could do that for days and it wouldn’t get old. Feels like being worshipped—like being _worthy_. It’s been a long time since Dean’s been able to have that, and he’s more than willing to let sleep take him bent over a counter if it means he can bask in the warmth of his brother’s love for a little while longer.

He almost _is_ asleep when he feels Sam’s hand moving down between them. His brother’s fingers trace around Dean’s entrance: around his own dick still lodged inside. Dean rolls his hips thoughtlessly at the feel of Sam’s half-hard cock twitching in his worn channel.

“I’m inside you,” Sam whispers.

“Kinda noticed,” Dean mumbles into the counter.

He isn’t sure Sam hears, or if he was even looking for a response. His fingers keep playing over that place where they’re joined, restless. This time, when Dean shifts his hips it’s with a little annoyance.

Flopping his head to one side, he groans, “Okay, ride’s over, everyone off.”

Sam laughs with way more energy than he should have right now and doesn’t budge. Dean rolls one eye back in an attempt to glare at his brother.

“Come on, man, I’m wiped. Get off.”

Sam kisses the corner of his mouth and murmurs, “We’re not done,” which wakes Dean’s mind right up even if his body is still down for the count. He realizes abruptly that Sam’s cock, which should be shrinking, actually seems to be getting bigger again.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” he groans. “What the fuck did you do, swallow a bottle of Viagra at the club?”

“Never had any complaints before,” Sam says. Conceited asshole.

“Yeah, cause you’ve been fucking chicks,” Dean points out. He sounds petulant and is too tired to care.

He can hear Sam’s smile in his voice when he says, “You telling me the Great Dean Winchester can’t get it up again?”

“Oh, fuck you, Sam. I came three times in the last two hours. Give me a fucking break!”

“You’re just getting old.”

“No, you’re just a freak of nature,” Dean grumbles.

Sam’s response is to pull free, and Dean is fine with that: really he is. And he’s in no way responsible for the way his screwed up body shifts back in an attempt to get Sam back inside.

Sam notices, of course: Dean can tell by the way his brother laughs. Flushing, he presses his face more firmly against his arms. He doesn’t understand where all of these desires are coming from. He would have noticed if he’d wanted Sam like this before, wouldn’t he? Sure, Dean’s good at denial, but no one’s _that_ good.

Right?

But when Sam’s hand trails over his ass, sliding down between his legs to rub at his spent and sore balls, Dean is consumed by a staticy wash of _moreyesmore_. There’s no fucking way that he could have developed an addiction this strong in a few hours.

Before he can pull himself together enough to tell Sam to give it up already, his brother moves that caressing hand up to Dean’s chest. Worming his arm between Dean and the countertop, he hauls back and draws Dean with him. Dean has a moment of dizzying uprightness and then Sam bends, grabbing him around the back of the knees and the shoulders, and hoists him up.

Okay, this is completely unfair. Dean has an orgasm and he can’t make his arms and legs work right. _Sam_ has one and suddenly he’s Superman, striding back to the bedroom with Dean draped over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

It isn’t turning Dean on. Not in the slightest. Honestly.

Sam brings him over to the nearest bed and lays him down, head on the pillow and limbs splayed at weary angles. Dean watches with heavy eyelids as his brother gets on the edge of the bed and then crawls on top of him, one knee planted on either side of his hips. Taking one of Dean’s wrists in each hand, Sam maneuvers them up over his head so that he can feel the wood of the headboard against his knuckles.

If he weren’t too spent to even get hard, Dean would be coming again right now.

As Sam stares down at him, all the humor drains from his face until there’s nothing left but an insatiable hunger that makes Dean’s heart trip over itself. With deliberate, slow motions, Sam inches back until his body is pinning Dean’s upper thighs to the bed. Dean’s throat works as he struggles to swallow, to look away, to do anything but lie there while Sam does whatever he’s planning.

But he’s unresisting as Sam lowers himself, releasing one of Dean’s wrists and using that hand to trap his own hardening cock against Dean’s overly sensitive one. His fingers work them together as he rolls his hips in slow undulations, and Dean lets out a hiss as a sudden rush of blood floods down to his dick. He’d protest, but he suddenly has a mouthful of Sam, who’s kissing him like he isn’t sure Dean will still be here tomorrow.

Dean lets his jaw go loose and slack for his brother, who alternates between licking into him with deep, desperate swipes of his tongue and sucking as though he could pull Dean inside of his own mouth and swallow him whole. Even that doesn’t seem to be enough for him, though, because he makes a low, frustrated noise and releases their cocks and Dean’s other wrist in order to paw at his face and angle him up into the kiss. Tilting his own head sideways, Sam manages to fit their mouths together almost seamlessly and Dean is left breathing in pathetic gasps through his nose while his brother does things with his tongue that should be—hell, probably _are_ , in some states—illegal.

The room is spinning when Sam finally breaks the kiss, or maybe that’s just Dean’s head. Difficult to say. His skin is hyper-aware of everything—the too-rough fabric of the motel comforter on his back and ass, the current of cool air from the vent in the ceiling, Sam’s sweaty body sliding along his, Sam’s damp and feather-soft hair tickling his face as Sam nuzzles him. Arousal lies across his skin in a thick fog, twining with his exhaustion and turning his body into leaden weight.

“Don’t move,” Sam says in a tone that is half-command, half-growl, and starts to crawl backwards down Dean’s body.

Dean isn’t making a conscious decision to obey when he lays there with his arms above his head the way Sam put him. He’s just too wiped to do anything else.

Then Sam reaches his destination and gets his mouth on Dean’s dick and Dean does his best to scramble up off the bed. Which means that he tenses up all his muscles and twitches his hips and rolls his head to one side and pants.

“Sam,” he gasps. “Sammy.”

Sam pulls off long enough to murmur, “Yeah, come on, baby,” and then goes back to sucking him.

Dean can’t keep back a whimper as his cock makes a valiant, painful attempt to fill. Fuck, Sam’s mouth is so wet, and hot, and perfect. Any other time Dean would be enjoying the hell out of this, but Sam is pushing him so hard right now he doesn’t know _what_ he is except fucked.

Sam isn’t going to expect this all the time, right? Jesus, Dean’s tangled with succubi that were less demanding. Sam’s human, and his brother, and he’s gotta let Dean rest every once in a while. Dean’s got stamina, sure, but he’s not the fucking Energizer Bunny.

Any semblance of cohesion that Dean has fractures as Sam gives a particularly firm suckle to the crown of his cock. He cries out hoarsely, but the noise only encourages his brother. Sam works him even harder, sucking and licking and bobbing until Dean’s cock reluctantly begins to stiffen under the onslaught. Betrayed, Dean stares at the ceiling while his heart thuds in a chest that feels hollowed out and numb.

Sam pushes Dean’s thighs wider and then, scooping his hands beneath Dean’s ass, pulls his crotch up. Dean’s cock gives a painful throb of pleasure as it hardens further and he can’t help writhing, which only serves to drive him deeper into his brother's mouth. Sam makes an encouraging grunt and shifts his grip to start working Dean’s balls with his right hand and that. Is. It.

“A-are you— _fuck_ —are y-you t-trying to k-kill m- _ngh_!”

Sam slides all the way down to the base and then, sealing his lips around Dean’s cock tightly, draws off. Laughs at Dean’s shaky swear.

When Dean casts a quick glance down his body, he finds his cock fully erect and shiny with his brother’s spit. Finds Sam watching him with a dark, satisfied look that makes Dean want to check for possession. But he already did that at the club, and Sam hasn’t been out of sight since then, which means … which means that Sam is a whole hell of a lot less vanilla than Dean thought he was.

In the midst of everything, Dean somehow finds the energy for a warm pulse of pride.

Then Sam is crawling back up, muscles flexing and sinuous as a leopard. Nudging his lower body in between Dean’s legs, he offers a wicked smile.

“Are you complaining?” he asks. His voice pours down over Dean’s skin like whiskey. He puts one hand on Dean’s lower stomach, stroking, and adds, “Because we can stop. If you really want to.”

No, not … not really. Not with his brother’s cock nudging at his ass again while Sam stares down at him with dark, damning devotion in his eyes. _We are so screwed,_ Dean thinks, and then, clumsy with exhaustion, slides his legs up and open even further so that his knees are in the air and his feet flat on the bed.

It’s invitation enough for Sam, who leans his weight on his forearms and shifts forward.

Dean is still open from before, and slick with a messy mix of lube and semen, and the sensation of his brother slotting into him so easy and perfect drives a rasping cry from his throat. Above him, Sam has gone still: every muscle tensed like a carving of some Greek god. Some of the darkness leaves his eyes, softening his gaze, and his throat works thickly.

“God, Dean, you’re so fucking wet,” he groans, and starts to move.

Dean thought that the thing with the mirror was intimate, but this is a thousand times worse—or maybe better, he can’t tell which. There’s no escaping Sam’s eyes now: every time he tries, Sam nips at his lips and throat and brings him front and center again. Sam doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, either: strokes in with slow, even pushes that leave Dean with an almost unbearable tension in his stomach and cock.

Just when Dean thinks he can’t take anymore, his brother fucks in and stops moving. With a low moan, Sam dips his head down and starts to mouth at the tattoo over Dean’s heart. Kinky son of a bitch.

Dean forgets that he’s supposed to be still and grabs weakly at his brother’s shoulders. His breath comes shallow and fast, body torn between the maddening sensations of his brother’s lips and tongue caressing his chest and the throb of Sam’s cock inside of him. For some reason, Sam feels bigger now that he isn’t moving.

When Sam shifts his weight to rest his left hand on Dean’s hip, Dean jerks uncontrollably. His brother’s cock twitches inside of him in return. Sam’s teeth scrape sharply over the tattoo.

It’s almost too much. _Would_ be too much if Dean hadn’t already come so many times. As it is, his cock gives a single jerk of its own and then goes back to that steady, hungry ache.

Exhaling heavily, Sam hefts himself up on his right hand and looks down their bodies. Strokes his thumb over the crest of Dean’s hipbone.

“When we’re done here,” he breathes, “I’m taking you back to Boston.”

Dean is still trying to get his muddled, sensation-ridden mind to tell him what’s in Boston _(besides the Red Sox, some awesome bars, and Francie something-or-other with the edible panties)_ when Sam tilts his thumb up and drags his nail against Dean’s skin in a stinging line. Which cues him right in to what Sam is talking about—what he wants—and Dean has to draw a line _somewhere_.

“No fucking way,” he pants.

Sam gives him a patient look and drags his thumb in another line. Probably tracing the pattern of whatever he wants those weirdoes at the Dragon’s Den to ink into Dean’s skin this time. Dean realizes that he’s still clinging weakly to his brother’s shoulders and brings his hands down to shove Sam’s hand off of him.

Sam ignores the attempt the same way that Dean has seen his brother ignore a fly buzzing around his head, until it becomes perfectly obvious that Dean could keep this up all night and get absolutely nowhere. Damn it. Dean’s frustration must show on his face because Sam smirks at him and then lifts his hand of his own accord.

Suddenly, Sam has his hands pinned above his head again: both of Dean’s wrists held tightly in his left hand. Awareness of his position floods Dean’s body with a hot shudder and all of his muscles instantly give out. Fuck, he might as well be manacled to the headboard for all he’s able to move.

“Gonna put a binding link on you,” Sam purrs. Keeping his hand implacable and confining around Dean’s wrists, he licks a line down the side of Dean’s jaw and over the hickey sucked into the side of his neck. “Always be able to feel you, always be able to find you.”

And the way he keeps flexing his grip and licking Dean’s skin whispers, _‘mine, always mine.’_

Dean wants to make a comment about possessive sons of bitches, or maybe ask Sam why he doesn’t just cut to the chase and brand ‘Property of Sam Winchester’ across his ass, but for some reason all that comes out of his mouth is a weak moan. He rolls his wrists a little against Sam’s hand and Sam tightens up on him in response. Dean moans louder as another overpowering burst of heat flashes through him.

Yeah, he’s one twisted puppy.

“Like that, don’t you?” Sam murmurs. “Told you I’d hold you down, Dean. Go ahead and struggle: you’re not going anywhere.”

Dean doesn’t actually _want_ to go anywhere, but he struggles anyway: feeble in the face of Sam’s strength and the cock wedged in his ass. He’s rewarded by the bruising clench of Sam’s hand around his wrists and the breathlessly heavy weight of Sam’s body caging him in. He should feel trapped and threatened— _would_ , with anyone else—but it’s Sammy, and the thought that he has no option but to take whatever his brother wants relaxes a knot of tension deep inside of Dean.

He gives a full-bodied shudder, filled with a riot of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, this strange, yielding need is too new for him to be anything other than bewildered by it, and he’s a little terrified at how deep it might run. But at the same time, he feels safe: feels relaxed and protected and loved.

God, he needs more. He needs Sam to move inside of him: to take him.

“ _Please._ ” That can’t be Dean’s voice. Not that quaking, pitiful thing.

“Yeah, baby. Gonna give it to you now, and you’re gonna take it, okay?” Sam doesn’t sound nearly as broken, which is both unfair and comforting. Dean might not know which way is up or down anymore, but his little brother is gonna take care of him.

“Okay, Dean?” Sam prods.

Dean can’t actually speak—used his last bit of cohesion to utter his plea—but he makes a wild, desperate sound in the back of his throat. Sam must understand what he means because he reaches down with his free hand to pull on his thigh.

Dean lets his brother manipulate first one leg and then the other into place around his waist. When the new angle lets Sam slide in that last, tantalizing inch and leaves their bodies flush again, Dean moans. Jerks his head back against the bed and tries to remember how to breathe.

There’s no chance to recover, though, because Sam starts moving again with snapping, vicious thrusts. Dean thought his brother was fucking him pretty seriously before, but it’s immediately obvious that Sam was taking it easy on him. Every push in sends Dean’s body rocking up against the headboard and his own restrained hands. Every withdrawal leaves him achingly empty. And every single slide drags across that sweet spot with merciless deliberation.

The room dissolves in tiny little flashes as Sam holds him down and fucks him. Dean is vaguely aware that he’s mewling, that his legs are trembling where they’re hooked around Sam’s waist, that his brother is kissing every inch of his skin that he can reach. He’s dripping sweat, skin agonizingly hot and responsive, and Sam is a brushfire moving against him.

It’s hours or days or years later when Dean realizes that, despite all probability, he’s building toward his fourth orgasm. The noises coming from his mouth blur together and rise to an almost continuous whine. The tremors in his legs spread to the rest of his body. Sam has been quiet so far, except for a few grunts of effort and the panting of his breaths, but now he starts with that rough, demanding voice again: telling Dean to go ahead, let go, come for him, so fucking gorgeous, come on, baby.

Dean’s throat tears with an honest to God scream as his orgasm slams into him. For an endless moment, he floats on a white wave of pleasure-pain that is impossible to think through. He doesn’t even know his own fucking _name_ as he hangs there: cock spurting only a weak, spent dribble. He’s conscious only of something moving inside of him, of someone holding him down: maybe holding him together. Somewhere distant there’s a choked cry that he knows doesn’t come from his own lips, and hot moisture slicks inside him, and then he crashes back into his body.

For a long moment he lays there, and Sam is unmoving on top of him. Their chests are both rising and falling quickly, and Dean can feel his brother’s wild heartbeat as a counterpoint to his own. Then Sam stirs, starting to ease his cock free, and Dean can’t hold back his whimper. His channel is too sore—too sensitive—for even that small movement.

Sam immediately soothes his hand down Dean’s right forearm, no longer restraining. Kissing his cheek gently, he whispers, “S’okay, baby, you did so good. You did fucking awesome, just—just shh, shh, it’s okay. We’re okay.”

Sam waits for Dean to stop shaking and then, in a careful slide, withdraws. Dean manages to keep quiet this time, but he has to bite down on his lower lip to do it. His brother’s withdrawal leaves a raw, deep ache inside of him—the muscles in his ass stretched and well used—but all Dean can think about is how good it felt having Sam inside of him.

The bed dips as Sam climbs off. Dean lies there with his legs sprawled wide, too fucked out to think clearly, and lets the white noise of his fatigued body drone in his mind. The sound of water running in the bathroom reaches him but means nothing until Sam reappears with a cool washcloth that he trails over Dean’s body.

Dean makes a muffled noise of protest—damned thing feels like ice on his feverish flesh—but Sam shushes him with a kiss and a “let me take care of you” and after a few minutes the cloth feels soothing instead of jarring. Sam’s hands are gentle, and just as good at putting him together as they were at taking him apart in the first place. The cloth goes everywhere: face, chest, stomach, cock. Down between Dean’s legs with deft, thorough swipes that make his breath catch.

By the time Sam is finished, Dean is more than half asleep. He mumbles a wordless protest when his brother’s hands squirm beneath his knees and shoulders.

“Bed’s a fucking mess, dude,” Sam tells him in a hushed voice, and then grunts as he lifts Dean and carries him the two steps to the other bed.

Sam sets him back down—sheets, not comforter: Sam must have thrown the covers back—and Dean flops over onto his side. The ache in his ass is less noticeable when he isn’t lying on it. He listens inattentively as Sam pads over toward the door.

Even behind his closed eyes, Dean can tell when the room goes dark, and the deepening of the blackness is soothing. He settles into it, too relaxed to respond when his brother slides into the bed behind him. Pulling up the sheet, Sam scootches closer and then curls around Dean, one leg tossed over his hip and arms holding him close.

“I like you like this,” Sam breathes. “All quiet and docile.” One of his hands trails idly up and down Dean’s arm. “Is this all it takes to shut you up? A good fuck? Cause I might have to do this every morning.”

Dean grunts and then, in an act of supreme effort, slurs, “Migh’ hafta kick yer ass t’mrrow.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, like you’re gonna be able to _walk_ tomorrow.” Then he presses a kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck and says in a softer tone, “I love you.”

Warmth spreads through Dean’s body in a languid wave. Oh, what the hell. Sam just gave him the fucking of his life: he deserves to be tossed a bone.

“Love you too, bitch,” Dean exhales, and then lets the rise and fall of Sam’s chest against his back lull him to sleep.


End file.
